


For Feelings Unbound

by SinnamonSpider



Series: Otherwheres: Supernatural AU Bingo Challenge [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU wincest, Alternate Universe - Historical, Aristocracy, Hate to Love, Historical References, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 08:49:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13186596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: When the King of England gives an order, you obey. Caught by this undeniable truth, newly-minted earl Samuel of Wesson and knight-at-arms Sir Dean Smith find themselves duty-bound to serve their sovereign - despite their apparent dislike of each other. But the more time they spend together, the more things change...





	For Feelings Unbound

**Author's Note:**

> My next installment for the SPN AU Bingo Challenge. Square filled is "Aristocrat!AU".
> 
> For the purpose of this challenge, in this fic and all others, Dean's last name is Smith and Sam's is Wesson, but they are not necessarily the Smith/Wesson from "It's a Terrible Life". I just want to keep their surnames simple and consistent.
> 
> Let me preface this by saying that I am not a historian, and I am taking vast and serious liberties with a lot of things in this world. I apologize for nothing :)
> 
> I've no idea how long this is going to end up being. I've got the next few bits plotted out, but I'm up to my elbows in other challenges right now and I just wanted to get this up and running. Don't hold your breath waiting, but rest assured that there will be more. 
> 
> Title from "Shelter" by Dermot Kennedy. The man is a lyrical genius, I swear.
> 
> Feedback is the breath of life.

_Winchester, England, 1605_

  


Samuel, Lord Wesson, sixth Earl of Winchester, sat on the ornate chair that his family had sat for generations with his head in his hands.

His father John, Lord Wesson, fifth Earl of Winchester, was a week in his grave and Samuel was already tired of his new seat and the responsibilities that came with it.

He was young, but not a fool. He had grown up at his father's hand - literally, he mused, looking at the spot where his stool used to sit, to the left and back a bit from the chair; a place he had spent countless hours learning how to govern. He'd known for years that it was a hard, tedious, thankless task. Tenants complained. Servants misbehaved. The king could come calling at any given moment. An earl’s life was not his own: it belonged to the sovereign and the realm.

Samuel had known this truth long before this ornate - and uncomfortable - chair had been his own. But there was a vast difference between knowing what it took to rule and actually doing it.

The house of Wesson was flat broke. Samuel had just spent two agonizing hours going over the household accounts with his father's steward - his own steward now, of course - and the truth could not be denied. Samuel had vast lands to his name. He had the use of two splendid manor houses - near palaces, really - one in which he currently sat, and another at the northern tip of Winchester, and a number of hunting cabins and smaller houses throughout the rest of his earldom. He had his title, a long and richly storied history. He had the ear of the king, should he want it - despite the fact that he had only met his sovereign twice in his life. He had everything a nobleman could want: except cash.

Despite his riches in land, titles, and connection, Samuel was the proud new owner of a serious financial crisis. A war almost five years ago had nearly bankrupted John, and he had struggled to keep the family afloat in the aftermath.

Samuel, away finishing his education, had not realized the dire straits his family was facing. He returned at the behest of his mother Mary when his father had fallen ill, and within a month, John was gone and Samuel found himself at the helm of a quickly sinking ship.

Worse, he had no idea how he was going to salvage the wreck.

Lady Mary entered the hall, smiling sadly at the sight of her son on his father’s chair. It was a scene she had known she would come to see one day, but she never imagined it would be so soon. He was still so young, and while he was intelligent and capable and would do his best, it was a heavy burden, even for shoulders grown so broad.

She crossed the room to take her son’s hands in her own.

“Will you not smile, my child, for me?” she said softly, and when Samuel raised his head, he took in the new lines around her eyes, the dark circles beneath them. He smiled like she asked, straightening his spine to sit upright, proud and strong, as his father had taught him. “How are you, mother?” he asked gently, and she inclined her fair head.

“Well enough, Samuel, though I worry for you.” She stroked his head. “‘Tis a pretty mess your father has left you, God bless and keep him. It was not his fault, and it is not yours, but I fear that now it is your cross to bear.”

“We will be fine,” Samuel insisted, and her eyes sparkled. “Of that I am certain, my dear.”

She drew a letter from her dress and handed it to Samuel. “It is from James.”

“The king?” Samuel was awestruck. He had been lord of Wesson for barely seven days; far too short a time for news of his father’s death to have reached London. “Why would he write to me?”

Lady Mary’s smile faltered. “Your father wrote him, in the last days. He knew he did not have long, and he wanted James to know before he passed.”

The letter was sealed, the king’s mark intact. Samuel arched an eyebrow at his mother, who frowned. “You are lord of Wesson, Samuel. Mother or not, I would not presume to open your correspondence. Especially when it arrives bearing the king’s seal.”

Drawing his knife, Samuel slit open the parchment. The letter had obviously been dictated by the king, not written by his own hand, but Samuel had not been expecting such personal attention from his lord. He read the letter through twice, a furrow appearing between his brows.

“What is it?” his mother asked, and Samuel handed her the letter. He rose to his feet and climbed down from the chair, pacing the floor as she read.

“What does he mean?” Samuel burst out, unable to restrain himself. “Does he doubt me so soon? I have not even had chance yet to prove myself capable.”

Mary looked sharply at him. “Do not speak so of your lord, my son,” she cautioned, “even when it is only you and I speaking. To question the king is treason. You know this.”

She looked over the letter again. “James is concerned over the security of our lands. He fears that not all of the minor nobles will accept you as earl.”

“What choice do they have?” Samuel demanded. “I am my father’s only son and heir. I am of age to inherit his title. It is not within their power to accept or reject me.” He motioned furiously to the parchment in his mother’s hand. “As the king is writing to confirm me, the matter seems to be settled.”

“It is not a question of your legitimacy, my dear,” Mary soothed him. “It is a matter of security. The king cannot afford to have his nobles squabbling amongst themselves. Civil war has torn the country apart too many times, for too long. He will not take any chances.”

Samuel scowled. “So he sends this - this upstart - to ‘assist’ me?” He snatched the letter back, ignoring his mother’s hard look. “Sir Dean. What does this name mean to me? Who is this man? What is his family? How will his presence help to quell this non-existent rebellion that the king is so concerned about?”

“Samuel!” Mary’s voice was sharp, a contrast to her usual soft tones. “You are the lord now. You must control your emotions. No matter what you are thinking in your head, your outward appearance must always be calm and collected. Remember your father.”

Recalling his father, who could shout and bluster loud enough to shake the rafters, Samuel snorted, but stopped pacing.

“This ‘upstart’, as you call him, is a high-ranking soldier in his Majesty’s personal guard,” Mary informed him, reading over the letter again. “He is of common birth, but his father smithed for the king and was knighted for his service, it would seem. The son, to his own credit, had risen through his military service.”

Common birth. Samuel reined in his tongue with effort.

“His presence will serve us well,” Mary continued, ignoring the sour expression on her son’s face. “A man of more simple background will connect with the common folk who would make up any rebel army, and his military standing and closeness with his Majesty will impress - and intimidate - the nobles. It is a good choice. The king is wise.”

“I am certain he is,” Samuel gritted out. “And clearly, the decision is made and I am to have no say in the matter.” He shook his hair from his eyes. “When is he to arrive?”

Mary eyed him. “A fortnight.”

* * *

A servant scurried into the great hall, moving quickly across the floor to bow before Samuel. “My lord, the King’s man has arrived.”

Sir Dean, come at last. Samuel straightened in his seat. “See to his horse and belongings, and have him sent to me.”

“Done and done, my lord.”

“Very good.”

The door at the end of the hall opened and a tall man in plain traveling garb was escorted into the room. Samuel watched as he approached, taking in his quick, efficient stride, military bearing, and steely eyes. When he reached his place in front of the dais, the guard announced him. “Sir Dean Smith, lord.”

Sir Dean inclined his head, a touch too shallow for Samuel’s liking, and waited for him to speak. Samuel purposefully waited a few seconds longer than he might have; that almost mocking bow had set his teeth on edge. “Sir Dean,” he said eventually, leaning back in his chair. “I am Samuel, Lord Wesson, sixth Earl of Winchester. Welcome.”

“A pleasure, my lord,” Sir Dean replied smoothly. His voice was deep and resonant, and the flinty eyes that bored back into Samuel’s were a startling emerald green. He offered no further conversation and Samuel was annoyed at being forced to speak.

“I am sure that we will, between us, set to rest his Majesty’s mind regarding the state of my lands.”

“I am certain as well, my lord.” Clearly, Sir Dean was a man of few words. Samuel chewed his lip, searching for something else to say to the man who was watching him with a blank face that somehow still seemed insolent. Thankfully, his mother appeared, drawing alongside his seat with a welcoming smile on her face, and Samuel was spared. “Sir Dean: my mother, Lady Mary.”

“Welcome, Sir Dean,” Mary said, in her usual calm way, and her presence soothed Samuel as it always had. “We are delighted to have you in our home.”

“I am most humbled by your generosity, Madam,” Sir Dean said, and his voice seemed to defrost slightly. The bow he gave Mary was far more respectful than the one he had given Samuel. Perhaps it was that discrepancy that sparked Samuel’s next words.

“Sir Dean,” he snapped. “This is the Dowager Countess of Winchester. You will address her as ‘my Lady’, not simply ‘Madam’, if you please.”

Sir Dean’s eyes flashed and a flush spread over his fair skin. He bowed low once more and addressed the carpet. “My sincerest apologies, my lady. I seek not to offend.”

“No offense is made, Sir Knight,” Mary assured him, beckoning to a waiting servant. “See Sir Dean is shown to his rooms and his every need attended,” she instructed, and the knight straightened from his obeisance and caught Samuel’s eye. There was a split second where Samuel was certain the other man would refuse to acknowledge him - and then he inclined his head in the same manner as before. “My lord, my lady.”

He followed the servant from the hall. Samuel watched the long, straight line and proud lift of his head with distaste. But as she turned to face him, his mother’s expression turned the distaste to shame and trepidation.

Only the fact that they were not alone - servants and other staff milling around the great hall as always - saved Samuel from the sting of his mother’s rebuke. Still, she was not without comment. “You shame yourself, Samuel. You shame yourself, you shame your father, and you shame your family.”

She turned and left him to his tumultuous thoughts.

* * *

An attendant brought Sir Dean’s regrets that he would not be attending supper, as he was weary from the long ride and wished to be well-rested for the next day. Samuel ground his teeth at this slight, but said nothing upon seeing his mother’s tight lips.

As she retired to her rooms for the evening, she beckoned to Samuel to follow. He did so, feeling quite like a child again. Outside her door, she looked up at him, composed as ever.

“Get some rest,” she said lightly. “We will see what the morning brings. A better attitude, I hope, from you.”

Bland words, so unlike the lash of John’s temper, fiery when provoked, and yet Samuel felt as he always did under his mother’s reproach: shamed and small, loathe to disappoint her. He leaned forward to kiss her upturned cheek, still smooth despite her burdens, both old and new. “Good night, mother. Tomorrow will be better.”

She passed a light touch over his jaw before slipping into her room, the door closing behind her.

Bone-weary and yet somehow not tired, Samuel wandered towards his own rooms. He had not yet mustered the courage to sleep in the lord’s chamber: his father’s belongings were still there, along with the whispers of his presence, and after the day’s events, he felt even less inclined to face them.

As he approached his door, he passed by one of the guest rooms. The door was open and through the crack, he could see someone: a man, naked back to the door. The man turned suddenly and Samuel caught the cool emerald gaze.

He stumbled back from the door before he could stop himself. The knight crossed the room in three quick strides. As he reached for the door, Samuel noted the ripple of muscle under his pale skin.

Hand on the knob, Sir Dean paused for a second, looking as though he was struggling with himself. Then he spoke, voice quiet and measured. “Good night, my lord.”

The door snapped shut before Samuel could reply, and while no one would dare question him if he broke it down and confronted the knight, Samuel pictured his mother’s face and thought twice. He turned away from the door, as blank and smooth as Sir Dean’s face, and continued into his own rooms.

Sleep did not come quickly to him.

* * *

The morning was bright and chilly. Samuel dressed and headed to the dining hall. As he entered, he saw his mother already seated, along with Sir Dean. Neither rose as Samuel came in and he suppressed a sigh: his mother was not required to rise, as she was both a woman and his elder, but the knight should have known better. In order to make the effort he knew Lady Mary would be expecting, Samuel said nothing and simply sat down.

“Good morning,” Mary said quietly. Sir Dean said nothing, but inclined his head politely. If he was recalling their encounter the night before, there was no indication of it on his face.

“Good morning, mother,” Samuel replied, eyes still on the knight’s face. He signalled to the attendants to begin serving the food, and as they bustled around, he watched Sir Dean.

He could not pinpoint the other man’s age, although he knew him to be older than himself. There were no lines on his face and he was not weatherbeaten like so many older soldiers, after so much time spent in sun and wind. His skin was fair, nearly pale, and Samuel tried to ignore how he knew for a fact that the same fair skin continued on below his neckline. His hair, an indeterminate colour between blonde and light brown, was cropped short in a military style, eschewing the fanciful coifs that were popular in James’ court. His features were nearly delicate: high cheekbones, narrow brow, sharply cut jaw. They contrasted with his build, which was broad and well-toned - again, Samuel cursed how much information he had about the other man’s body. Strong sweeps of shoulder, wide chest narrowing to a surprisingly slim waist. Hidden beneath the table were legs that Samuel had seen yesterday in the great hall: thick, well-muscled rider’s legs, bowed slightly from years spent on horseback. He was also tall, Samuel recalled - just slightly below his own height, which was considerable.

Lady Mary cleared her throat and Samuel was jerked out of his study. She arched her pale brows at him and he looked away from the knight - who seemed to be quite oblivious to his lord’s scrutiny.

“How best do you think to begin addressing the king’s concerns?” Mary asked, and Samuel swallowed his mouthful of food.

“Well, he seems to be worried in particular with the northern edges,” he answered. “I had thought to start there and work our way west, circling around to the south before returning.”

“Sir Dean?” Mary said. The knight looked up from his breakfast. “A solid plan,” he replied tonelessly. “I am not overly concerned about any of the region. From what the king has described, I believe he may be - ” he hesitated “ - perhaps a shade too worried.” He looked at Samuel. “Although far be it from me to fathom the minds of the nobility.”

“You are nobility yourself, Sir Dean, now that you hold that weighty title,” Mary reminded him, smiling. Sir Dean smiled back at her and his eyes crinkled with the motion, deep-set lines in his skin. “How quickly I forget, my lady.” He shook his head somewhat self-deprecatingly. “For all its weight, it is still strange to me. I am a simple soldier, and not accustomed to the trappings of rank.” His smile widened to a grin that brought warmth to his cool green gaze. “At least, rank which is not military.”

Mary patted his hand, a motherly gesture that irritated Samuel. “You will do just fine, sir.”

“Please, my lady, I beg of you,” the knight continued, “will you do me the honour of addressing me simply as Dean? The ‘Sir’ is still heavy to my ears, I fear.”

When his mother laughed, Samuel knew she was charmed. “It will not get lighter if not used,” she cautioned. “But I can understand, Dean.” Her smile dimmed. “I myself find that Dowager Countess weighs quite heavily on me.”

Sir Dean lowered his head respectfully. “My own mother finds herself struggling with similar feelings, my lady,” he said kindly. “If not in title, then in heart and soul.”

Mary smiled once more, sadly. “Such is the role we women are given.”

“Forgive me, mother,” Samuel interrupted, annoyed at the common ground his mother was finding with the soldier. “But we should make haste if we are to make the first of the hunting cabins before dark.”

Sir Dean’s eyes cut to him sharply and Samuel felt the wave of resentment as though it was a physical thing. “Of course,” Mary said. “The preparations are nearly complete.”

Samuel frowned. “Not that circus in the courtyard, I hope?”

“It is not a circus, Samuel, it is your progression train.”

“Mother, no,” Samuel argued. “I will not win the respect of the border lords by travelling with half my household. They will think me a weak boy hiding behind guards and servants. And such a group will move too slowly.”

“You are the lord of Wesson, Samuel,” Mary countered. “You must travel in the style befitting such a personage.”

“If I may interrupt,” Sir Dean broke in, and Samuel glared at him. “His lordship is quite right.”

Stunned, Samuel bit back the retort hovering on the tip of his tongue. The knight continued. “A large progression will take time, and may look slightly aggressive. A smaller retinue is the better choice.”

Mary was concerned. “Is there not greater safety in greater numbers?”

“Not necessarily,” Sir Dean replied. “A small but carefully selected group will fare better than a large one, with too many servants and other such people to protect should we come under attack. A handful of fighting men, all capable and well-equipped, is more than sufficient.” He levelled a mildly insolent look at Samuel. “Have you such men at hand, my lord?”

“Of course,” Samuel snapped. Sir Dean went on. “With your permission, then, I will select a number of them to accompany us.”

Samuel tried to find a reason to argue, but could not. “Very well,” he said sourly. “But be quick. I want to be on the road in one hour.”

Sir Dean looked at him coolly. “Done, my lord.” He rose from the table without waiting for Samuel to stand first. “My lady,” he bowed to Mary. Then he smiled at her. “Fear not. I will take care of your son with the utmost attention.”

Samuel spluttered as the knight swept from the hall. “Take care of - why, I am - as though I need to - ” He could not complete a thought and Mary sighed with resignation. She rose to her feet and came to her son’s side, taking his face in her hands. “For my sake, Samuel,” she pleaded, “listen to that young man. I do not know what offense he has caused you, but he knows better than you in these things. Keep to your diplomacy and tact, win the border lords back to our house, and leave the running of the day-to-day to him. He will not fail you.”

“How do you know that?” Samuel demanded. Mary smiled and patted his cheek.

“Because failing you would mean failing me, and he likes me far too much to allow that.”

Samuel scowled, as he knew she spoke the truth.

* * *

Within the hour, Samuel was in the courtyard, climbing into the saddle of his grey palfrey, Osseus. A groom held Osseus’ bridle as Samuel twisted in his seat, looking around for Sir Dean.

The knight appeared astride a fierce black destrier, which tossed its head gaily. With him was a handful of Samuel’s own men - or, rather, his father’s men. He knew them all by sight, though not by name, as many of them had joined the household after he had left for school.

Lady Mary waved at them from the steps as they set out down the road. 

As they rode out of view of the manor house, the quiet crush of the cool forest overtook the group. They rode in silence for a while.

“That’s a handsome horse,” Thomas said admiringly to Sir Dean, breaking the silence. The knight grinned. “A gift from his Majesty upon the day I entered his service,” he replied, and while he could have boasted, he did not seem to be. “Her name is Impala.”

“ _Her_ name?” Samuel piped up, shocked. Sir Dean looked back over his shoulder, the same cool expression he seemed to have adopted whenever interacting with Samuel. “Yes, her name.”

“You ride a female warhorse?” Samuel continued. That cool expression melted off the knight’s face, replaced by something dark and foreboding; something that made Samuel backpedal quickly. “I am not judging you, Sir Knight. I am simply surprised.”

The other man paused before answering, eyes boring into Samuel as though trying to decide what to say. “Females have better dispositions,” he said neutrally, after a time. “Stallions are stronger and bigger, but at the cost of their temper.” He smirked. “When the king offered me the pick of his stables, I knew what I wanted. I had seen too many knights unable to control their mounts.” The smirk widened until he looked devilish. “Especially when their stallion catches Impala’s scent. They lose their minds and their riders lose their seats.”

“Interesting tactic,” Richard mused. “Is a female horse not too placid for battle, though?”

Sir Dean grinned at him wickedly, reining in Impala close to his courser. Richard’s horse scented the air and stretched out his neck, trying to get closer to the mare. Sir Dean tilted his head. “Would you like to test your theory?” he offered. Richard’s eyes widened as he pulled his mount away from the knight, and Dean and the rest of the group laughed at his expression.

“Won’t bother me any,” Anthony laughed. “Mine’s a gelding, he’s not interested.”

“Are you?” Sir Dean countered, to further amusement.

Samuel, who had dropped back from the conversation, resisted the urge to slump in Osseus’ saddle. He felt quite out of place among these men, and he knew that while they would never voice it, they also knew he did not belong with them.  He recalled feeling something of the sort whenever he had travelled with his father and his mother had not been along. He was beginning to regret not listening to her suggestion to bring along a larger party.

Ahead, Sir Dean was telling the others about his family. “My father is Robert Smith.” His face darkened for a second. “Was. Sir Robert Smith.”

“Didn’t he craft the armour the king wore for his coronation painting?” Thomas asked. Sir Dean nodded. “That’s the work that earned him the Sir,” he said proudly. “He made a good number of other things for his Majesty.”

“How is it that you’re a soldier and not a smith, then?” Richard asked. The knight shrugged. “My father had thought to teach me his trade. I do know some small things about smithing. But my heart was not in it and he knew as much. When the king asked my father to move to London to be closer to the court, my father asked for a favour in return: that I be trained as a soldier or a guard. The king agreed, and after a few years - and a few battles - I took up position as head of his personal guard.”

“You’re young for that high a rank,” Thomas said, impressed. Sir Dean shrugged. “I suppose. Not many kings would trust a man at four-and-twenty with his life, but I must have done something right.”

“He was counting on your father’s armour more than your skill,” Anthony quipped. Sir Dean laughed. “Likely that was the case. Didn’t hurt my progression, though.”

Four-and-twenty: Samuel had his answer to the question of how old the knight was. Four years older than himself; not as much difference as he had thought.

“Odd of the king to send his head of guard on a mission like this,” Rowland noted.

“It is,” Dean agreed. “He knows I don’t care much for palace life. Guarding him in such a fortified place is somewhat dull. He indulges me.” He shrugged again. “And, he hopes that a journey and task such as this will teach me how to better interact with the nobility.” His head turned, just slightly, toward Samuel, and he dropped his voice low enough that his next words went unheard: except by his compatriots, who burst out laughing.

Samuel snarled quietly. The knight was undermining him; although, he realized, there was not much to undermine. The men with him saw him as their lord: someone to be protected, certainly, and respected simply for his position, but that was it. They did not respect him as a man, as an equal. They would do their duty for duty’s sake. Samuel would find no friends among them.

The idea, coupled with the long journey stretching out before them, soured his thoughts.

Even as he sulked, Sir Dean looked back at him. “My lord,” he called out, “you should not fall back to the tail of the party. We would be hard pressed to guard you from such a distance.”

Scowling, Samuel touched up Osseus until he had ridden past the knight, falling in just behind Richard in the lead. He rode with his head high and his back straight, and he did not look at Sir Dean.

 

_To be continued..._


End file.
